THE OVERFLOWINGS OF THE LATE PELLUCID RIVERS, Esq.
Reading edition
Edited by Edmund H. Yates.
In submitting to the public some of the productions of my lamented friend Rivers, I think it right to endeavour to sketch some faint outline of the career of their illustrious author. “The world knows nothing of its greatest men,” says Philip Van Artevelde, and its general ignorance of Rivers clearly proves the truth of the remark.
Born of poor but respectable parents, in the parish of St. Pancras, at an early age Rivers evinced symptoms of that poetic talent which, in later life, made him so renowned—I mean, which would have made him so renowned, had he not been crushed by the wretched blindness and illiberality of the publishers of the metropolis. He could not have been more than five years of age when he first burst forth in metrical numbers; it was at the family dinner-table, when, pointing first to the smoking joint, then to the domestic implement by which he was conveying a portion of it to his mouth, he exclaimed—
“Pork! Fork!”
A moment after, indicating the beer jug, his juvenile “poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,” he continued, “chalk!” His meaning on this point was vague, but it is generally considered he implied that the liquid was not paid for at the time, but was chalked up behind the door to the family account—a custom prevalent, I have ascertained, in many parts of the United Kingdom. From that period until his death he was constantly engaged in writing;—though his name never appeared to any of his productions, they were most extensively read; indeed, one of his minor poems—
“Dearest maid, I thee do love; This my tender vows shall prove— Little Cupid’s thrilling dart Has found refuge in my heart,”
has been considered so successful, that the publication of it is annually revived, and the fourteenth of February, sacred to St. Valentine, is the day usually chosen for its reappearance.
For the last twenty years of his life, poor Rivers laboured under severe fits of melancholy and depression, the cause of which he long held secret. Shortly before his decease, however, he confided to me the source of his grief. It was, that manuscripts which he had forwarded on approval to various publishers, had been returned as worthless, while a few months afterwards the same publishers would send forth books of poems in which the most direct plagiarisms from my poor friend’s productions would appear. He made me solemnly pledge myself to see him righted in the opinion of the world, and hence the publication of these papers.
I regret exceedingly to be obliged to hold up to public odium names which have hitherto stood so highly as those of Mr. A—f—d T—ys—n and his publisher, Mr. M—x—n, but I defy any candid reader to peruse the following vigorous and striking stanzas of my poor friend’s, and then turn to that weak and rambling production, “L—cks—y H—ll,” without perceiving which is the grand original, which the mean and despicable parody!
VAUXHALL.
Cabman, stop thy jaded knacker; cabman, draw thy slackened rein; Take this sixpence—do not grumble, swear not at Sir Richard Mayne! ’Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the cadgers bawl— Sparkling rockets, squibs and crackers, whizzing over gay Vauxhall. Gay Vauxhall! that in the summer all the youth of town attracts, Glittering with its lamps and fireworks, and its flashing cataracts. Many a night in yonder gilded temple, ere I went to rest, Did I look on great Von Joel, mimicking the feathered nest; Many a night I saw Hernandez in a tinsel garb arrayed, With his odorif’rous ringlets tangled in a silver braid; Here about the paths I wandered, chaffing, laughing all the time, Laughing at the piebald clown, or listening to the minstrel’s rhyme; When beneath the business-counter linendraper’s men reposed, When in calm and peaceful slumber, sharp maternal eyes are closed; When I dipt into the pewter pot that held the foaming stout, When I quaffed the burning punch, or wildly sipped the “cold without.” In the spring a finer cambric’s wrapped around the lordling’s breast; In the spring the gent at Redmayne’s gets himself a Moses’ “vest;” In the spring we make investment in a white or lilac glove; In the spring my youthful fancy prompted me to fall in love. Then she danced through all the ballet, as a fairy blithe and young, Stood a tiptoe on a flow’ret or from clouds of pasteboard swung— And I said, “Miss Julia Belmont, speak, and speak the truth to me, Wilt thou from this fairy region with a heart congenial flee?” On her lovely cheek and forehead came a blushing through her paint, And she sank upon my bosom in the semblance of a faint; Then she turned, her voice was broken (so, if I must tell the truth, Was her English—all I pardoned in the generous warmth of youth), Saying, “Pray excuse my feelings, nothing wrong, indeed, is meant,” Saying, “Will you be my loveyer?” weeping, “You are quite the gent.” Love took up the glass before me, filled it foaming to the brim, Love changed every comic ballad to a sweet euphonious hymn! Many a morning in the railway did we run to Richmond, Kew, And her hunger cleared my pockets oft of shillings not a few! Many an evening down at Greenwich did we eat the pleasant “bait,” Till I found my earnings going at a rather rapid rate.— Oh! Miss Belmont, fickle-hearted! Oh, Miss Belmont, known too late! Oh, that horrid, horrid Richmond, oh, the cursed, cursed “bait.” Falser far than Lola Montes, falser e’en than Alice Gray, Scorner of a faithful press-man, sharer of a tumbler’s pay!— Is it well to wish thee happy? having once loved me—to wed With a fool who gains his living by his heels and not his head! As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown, And, pursuing his profession, he will strive to drag thee down. He will hold thee, in the winter, when his fooleries begin, Something better than his wig, a little dearer than his gin. What is this? his legs are bending! think’st thou he is weary, faint? Go to him, it is thy duty; kiss him, how he tastes of paint! Am I mad, that I should cherish memories of the by-gone time? Think of loving one whose husband fools it in a pantomime! Never, though my mortal summers should be lengthened to the sum Granted to the aged Parr, or more illustrious Widdicomb— Comfort!—talk to me of comfort!—what is comfort here below? Lies it in iced drinks in summer, aquascutum coats in snow? Think not thou wilt know its meaning, wait of all his vows the proof, Till the manager is sulky, and the rain pours through the roof: See, his life he acts in dreams, while thou art staring in his face, Listen to his hollow laughter, mark his effort at grimace! Thou shalt hear “Hot Codlins” muttered in his vision-haunted sleep, Thou shalt hear his feigned ecstatics, thou shalt hear his curses deep: Let them fall on gay Vauxhall, that scene to me of deepest woe, But—the waiters are departing, and perhaps I’d better go!
Such is the noble ballad of Vauxhall! but Rivers was master of all styles. The following exquisite picture of the joys and sorrows of modern domestic life presents an example of that happy blending of the real and the romantic with which the head of Rivers overflowed. The ballad of “Boreäna” has been kindly communicated by my literary friend Frank Fairleigh, who knew, loved, and admired Rivers as much as myself. After pointing out some of the more subtle and mysterious beauties of this matchless lyric, Fairleigh adds, “and yet after this, A—f—d T—ny—n had the face to publish that bombastic, trashy ballad of “Oriana,” and pretend it was original; where does that misguided man expect to go to?”
THE BALLAD OF BOREÄNA.
My brain is wearied with thy prate, Boreäna, I sit and curse my hapless fate, Boreäna, What time the rain pours down the gutter, Still your platitudes you utter, Boreäna, I unholy wishes mutter, Boreäna. Ere the night-light’s flame was fading, Boreäna, While the cats were serenading, Boreäna, Sheep were bleating, oxen lowing, We heard the beasts to Smithfield going, Boreäna, You said the butcher’s bill was owing, Boreäna. At Cremorne, we two alone, Boreäna, Ere my wisdom teeth were grown, Boreäna, While the dancers gaily hopped, And the brass band never stopped, Boreäna, I to thee the question popped, Boreäna. She stood behind the area gate, Boreäna, She did it just to aggravate, Boreäna, She saw me wink, she heard me swear, She recognized the scoundrel there, Boreäna, She knows a bailiff I can’t bear, Boreäna. The cursed writ he pushed it through, Boreäna, The area rails, and gave it you, Boreäna, The infernal summons me un-nerved, He from his duty never swerved, Boreäna, On thee, my bride, the writ he served, Boreäna. Oh! narrow-minded County Court, Boreäna, ’Tis death to me, to them ’tis sport, Boreäna, Oh! stab in my most tender place, My pocket! oh! the deep disgrace, Boreäna, I fell down flat upon my face, Boreäna. They fined me at the next court day, Boreäna, Locked up, how can I get away, Boreäna? I don’t perceive of hope a ray, ’Tis a true bill, but, oh! I say, Boreäna, How without tin am I to pay, Boreäna? When turns the never-pausing mill, Boreäna, I tread, I do not dare stand still, Boreäna: At home, of beer thou drink’st thy fill, I may not come to thee and swill, Boreäna, I hear the rolling of the mill, Boreäna.